Stark: An American Musical
by psychicchameleon
Summary: A series of stories inspired by Lin Manuel Miranda's Hamilton. / ch. 2: Mr. Stark, sir. / "I want to prove to everyone that I'm worth more than anyone bargained for. I want to be able to think, that, somewhere out there, my parents are proud of me."
1. Anthony Stark

**a/n: so this is a completely unnecessary series of loosely connected one-shots inspired by songs from Hamilton... I have no explanation for it other than, like, it sounded fun? And I kinda want to rip your hearts out with It's Quiet Uptown.**

 **Read: Lin Manuel Miranda owns me and any lyrics used in this fic. But mostly me.**

1\. / Anthony Stark

"Holy mother of—you bastard, orphan, son of a—good God that hurts," Rhodes hissed through through his teeth as Tony tightened the metal device around his leg.

"I thought cripples weren't supposed to feel pain," Tony said, feeling Rhodey's nails sink into his skin, "and didn't you go through special ops training? Shouldn't this feel like nothing to you?"

"You want to try it on and see how it feels?"

"If it means I get to be the one digging my ridiculously long fingernails into your arm, then maybe. Seriously buddy, when's the last time you trimmed these talons?"

Rhodes dug his nails in deeper.

"Fu—okay, that was uncalled for," he winced as he rubbed his arm, "and you know what else was uncalled for? The orphan comment. Little soon, don't you think?"

"It's been over thirty years."

Tony frowned, now working on tightening the device on the other leg.

"God I'm old. Which means you're even older. FRIDAY, remind me to look at nursing homes for my geriatric pal here later this week." He grinned as Rhodey narrowed his eyes and smacked him across the chest.

"Just because I'm a paraplegic doesn't mean I won't kick your ass Tony."

He just laughed. "Alright buddy, all done. How does that feel?"

His friend stood up and took a hesitant walk down the hallway.

"You know, I feel like I should write down the date, maybe put it in a scrapbook. Rhodey's first steps. This is such a proud father moment for me. It's exciting for you, too, of course, but mostly for me."

Rhodes rolled his eyes. The injury was still fresh, and he was still coming to terms with his decreased mobility. It was hard, for both of them, but they had hope.

Tony had been working on the contraption, forgetting to sleep at times, designing and creating in a guilt-ridden, coffee-driven haze. A smirk never failed to light up Tony's eyes, but Rhodey would never not notice the dark circles drooping just below. He knew better.

He also knew better than to try and tear Tony away from a project, especially one driven by the overwhelming sense of responsibility he never seemed to shake.

"Save the proud father moments for your protégé. Don't think I haven't seen the new models of his suit lying all over this complex while mine, I might add, is still parachute-less. Traitorous bastard."

Rhodes had slid carefully onto the floor, the act of walking taking a lot more energy now that his limbs were rather uncooperative. It killed Tony a little bit, to see his best friend drained from a task that had once been so menial. At least it was progress.

He wordlessly joined him on the ground.

"Actually, I think it was bastard, orphan, son-of-a-bitch," he corrected. "I think that'd be a good title for my autobiography. Maybe I'll write it on my headstone... actually, that's definitely what I want. Make a note of that for my funeral plans. And as long as we're making plans, I want you to give the eulogy."

If there was a look for 'you've finally crossed the threshold to insanity', it was emanating off of Rhodes right now.

"You must be out of your damn mind."

Tony feigned hurt, pressing his hand over the spot where his arc reactor used to rest.

"Why? Because you think you'll die first? Come on, I've got a death wish and, like, zero regard for danger. You live ten years longer than I do, minimum."

"I don't have a parachute."

"Exactly! You didn't even have a parachute and you're still a living, whining, pain in the ass."

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Can't Pepper give the damn eulogy?"

Tony's face twisted exaggeratedly, like that was the most absurd comment he'd heard in his entire life.

"What, and put her through even more than she'd already have gone through? We both know I'm going to go out in spectacular, gut-wrenching fashion, don't tell me you'd actually make her get up there and give a whole speech after that. She'll have enough on her plate."

"Oh, so she'll be too emotionally vulnerable but, sure, let's make your best friend get up there and do it instead."

Tony's mouth pulled to the side of his face. "Careful, pal. I never fully committed to you being my best friend. I do _live_ with Pepper, tell her all my dark, dirty secrets. You're easily a close second, though."

His eyes narrowed in a glare.

"You say something stupid like that again and I'll be the _reason_ you're having a funeral."

"Rhodey, you know I love you both—just in different ways." A smirk was practically eating his face, but his friend was having none of it.

"Oh yeah? Who'd you give a suit to, Tony? I don't see Pepper up there kicking ass next to you."

"One—if I recall correctly, you _stole_ the suit. Two—I'm pretty sure Pepper has killed at least half of the guys I've gone up against. And three—if we're basing friendships off of suits, as you mentioned earlier, then Peter Parker is my best friend... speaking of, he should be here any minute."

Tony lifted his watch to his face, the screen lighting up as he checked the time.

"Remind me again why the fifteen-year-old is always over here now?"

"He's helpful. He helped me design that," he pointed at the metal device Tony had been painfully tightening onto Rhodey's leg a few minutes earlier. "It's much more ergonomic than the last one."

Rhodes raised an eyebrow. "The kid helped you design this?"

"Don't doubt him, he's practically a genius—probably smarter than you."

He punched Tony in the arm.

"I went to M.I.T. too, remember? Degree in Aerospace Engineering? Give me some credit, man."

"Huh. See, I have vague memories of that, but I was busy having _fun_ in college—,"

"You were busy destroying your liver."

"I was living out my glory days."

"Oh, trust me, there was nothing _glorious_ about puking all over our bathroom every other weekend."

Tony pressed his lips together. "Yea... let's maybe not bring that up in front of Pete."

A look that Tony couldn't decipher passed Rhodey's face. "What exactly is the deal with you and this kid? Did some of that fun in college have some permanent, teenaged consequences?"

His friend had noticed several different trials of red and blue Spider-Man suits lying around for a few weeks now, but he hadn't questioned it because Tony had always outfitted the team and, well, the team was pretty sparse as of late.

Of course, Tony still had a new prototype for Captain America's shield in the works and some upgraded arrows for Clint lying around on a workbench somewhere, among other things.

He could only work on them for so long, though, before the gadgets just became glaring reminders of the faces that were now absent from the Compound.

Making suits for Spider-Man kept Tony busy. It made him feel productive. Worthwhile. He wasn't left with such an empty feeling in his chest.

Tony scoffed. "Jesus, Rhodey, he isn't _mine._ Thank God. I've already screwed with his life enough." He took his tinted glasses off and fiddled with them in his hands. "I just found the kid online, but no one was going to take him seriously in his homemade Halloween costume, so I gave him a little upgrade."

Rhodey might've believed that, if it weren't for the Midtown High sweatshirt draped across one of the couches or the newspaper clippings of the spandex-wearing superhero clandestinely taped to Tony's desk.

"That still doesn't explain why he's over here all the time."

"I was just going to give him the suit and let him go back to doing his own thing... but he managed to break all the security locks I set in a little over a week and then decided to single-handedly take on Sam Wilson's evil alter-ego."

"You gave a child genius a million-dollar toy and you didn't think he'd play with it?"

Tony turned to face him before deadpanning, "I don't have a lot of experience with teenagers, okay? It was stupid, I know, but I'm trying to make up for that by having him over here—letting him have a say in the design process and actually teaching him how to use it—because he has little regard for my built-in training protocols. And he's good help."

Rhodey was about to ask if Peter's more frequent visits had anything to do with the quiet silence that now haunted the compound whenever he or Pepper were out, but he was interrupted by one-hundred and forty-one pounds of pure excitement practically bounding out of the elevator.

"Mr. Stark! So there was this guy on the subway today who tried to swipe a phone from this other guy, and I saw the whole thing happen but I couldn't do anything about it because he was too far away and I couldn't squeeze through all the people, but—oh, h-hey Mr.—Mr. Col. Rhodes, Sir."

Tony looked amused.

"Pete, I'd like you to my best pal Mr. Col. Rhodes, also known as Rhodey, also known as War Machine... it is War Machine, right? We're officially over the Iron Patriot thing?"

He ignored Tony, pushing against his shoulder to stand up, before reaching out to shake Peter's hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Peter." He shot his attention over to the other man in the room. "And what happened to 'Pepper's my best friend', huh, Tony?"

Tony held out a hand to Peter, who obligingly helped him up to his feet, while maintaining eye contact with Rhodes.

"I mean, you _are_ the one giving my eulogy."

"Am _not_."

"Rhodey, come on, you give the best speeches. Remember that one you gave in like 2009? At the White House? FRIDAY, play the speech."

"No. FRI—,"

"Playing Colonel Rhodes' Presidential Medal of Honor Introduction Speech."

Peter stood awkwardly in front of the two men, terribly confused, as a familiar voice rang out over the speakers in the compound.

"I've been asked over and over again if I ever suspected my best friend was a superhero. The answer to that is—I've always known that he was different, and not just because he's a hell of a lot smarter than the rest of us. He grew up in the legacy of Howard Stark. No one was surprised when he turned out to be a genius—at fifteen, they placed him in advanced classes at M.I.T-,"

"FRIDAY, mute."

"FRIDAY, override."

"...but there's more to Tony than just brilliance. He's a self-starter. The only thing standing between him and what he wants is himself. When he saw his future dripping down the drain in Afghanistan, brought to his knees by weapons his company he'd created, left with nothing but ruined pride—something new inside broke through. Anyone else might've been dead in a week but Tony—he wouldn't let himself go out like that."

"FRIDAY, stop."

"FRIDAY, don't even think about it."

"...he put a pencil to paper and with nothing more than some scrap metal and the help of a new friend he plotted his way out of hell. He overcame certain death in a cave, but he didn't stop with self-preservation. He rewrote the game in the defense private sector. He saved his own life and then he saved countless others, and because of him, the world will never be the same."

"FRIDAY—," Rhodes threatened.

Tony cut him off. "Oh, come on, this is the best part." The recording kept playing.

"I know you already know his name, but it is my honor to present the medal of honor to my best friend, Tony Stark... Or, as many of you may know him: Iron Man."

"FRIDAY, off," Rhodes said, and Tony finally didn't protest. "Tell me you don't keep that around just to boost your ego. You know I only did that because the President asked me to. It wasn't for you."

"You keep telling yourself that."

The two men kept bantering, but throughout it all, Peter was eerily quiet. It only took a few seconds of his silence for Tony to realize something was up.

"Hey Pete, you look like you swallowed a frog. Everything all right up there?" he asked, raising his hand to gently pat him on the head.

The kid shook as if coming out of a trance. "Yea—yea, everything... everything's fine, it's just... aren't eulogies, like, the things you say at funerals?"

Rhodey answered, "Yes, they are. See, Tony, he thinks it's weird too."

Peter still looked like he had gotten kicked in the shins.

"No... I mean yeah, kinda, but that's not—Mr. Stark... are you dying?"

Tony looked confused for a second before... oh.

"God, kid, no—I'm not dying. I was just trying to mess with Rhodey here, I didn't mean to—."

"Oh thank God," Peter said, visibly relaxing, "don't scare me like that."

Then, he did something that made Rhodey nearly slide to the floor. Again.

His deceptively small arms wrapped around Tony's torso, and Tony hesitated for half of a second before tentatively and quickly returning the gesture.

For a second, it was a picture-worthy moment. But the second passed and the moment came to an end as both parties seemed to realize instantaneously that they were crossing boundaries.

"Right," Tony coughed, "Peter, why don't you show Rhodey some of the new features you dreamed up. I'm going to go get... some coffee. Try not to talk his ear off, he's the only one who still sometimes listens to me around here."

James Rhodes had known Tony for what felt like an eternity. He fought with him. Trusted him. And if the situation ever arose, he would die for the damn fool.

But the man who exited the room as if the soles of his shoes had caught fire, a wisp of crimson warmth on his cheeks, looked like a new man entirely.

There were a million things he suddenly wanted to ask Tony, a million places to prod, and he couldn't wait to do exactly that after the boy returned to his apartment in Queens for the night.

Right now, though, the kid was showing him the new thrusters Tony had built into the heels of the devices.

"...and if you do this, then the repulsors activate—,"

Peter pressed a button, and the chorus of T.N.T. came blaring through the room as the repulsors sent Rhodey crashing into the wall behind him.

Tony sauntered back into the room, a cup of coffee in hand and a snort on his face as he surveyed the scene. A flustered Peter Parker tried to hold back a laugh as he attempted to help a cussing, high-ranking military official up from a muddled heap on the floor.

"Oh yea. There's a bit of a learning curve. You'll figure it out," he garbled, mouth stuffed with a muffin that he had hidden in his other hand, "For now... consider this recompense for the orphan comment." He clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder, ushering him toward the shop, his friend still lying in an annoyed mess on the ground.

He'd help him later, of course, but the look on Rhodey's face gave him a pure, childlike joy that few things could. If Rhodes kicked his ass later—paraplegia and all—it would have been worth it a hundred times over.

So he led a mildly concerned Peter Parker away, chuckling as his best friend's voice faded into the background.

"Don't you even think about walking away without teaching me how to use these things. Tony... Tony Stark you better not be walking away from me. Don't be a dick. Come back here, you heartless, pompous, snowflake... I _know_ you know I'll get you back for this... quit acting like a teenaged punk... Anthony Stark!"

Tony laughed under his breath and kept walking. Rhodes always came up with the nicest things to call him.

He didn't care what Rhodey said; there was no way he was _not_ having that man give his eulogy.


	2. Mr Stark, Sir

**a/n: please leave any thoughts, comments, or ideas in a review. I love reading them. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, so I hope y'all enjoy it.**

2017.

Upstate New York.

"Um, Mr. Stark, sir?"

Peter sat on a bench in the lab, fiddling with the mess of chemicals for his web fluid lying on the table in front of him.

It was surreal that he—a kid who still had a cheap plastic Iron Man mask that he'd worn to the Stark Expo an eternity ago tucked deep inside his closet—was working next to the guy that designed the real one. He was waiting to wake up, disappointed, from the painfully vivid dream.

Tony sighed from across the shop. "Pete, I thought I told you to quit with the whole 'sir' thing. You know it makes me nervous."

"Right. Sorry, Mr. Stark, sir," he fumbled, cheeks reddening as he realized his mistake, "it's still new, I guess."

Tony dropped the wrench he was holding, eyes rolling to the back of his head in exasperation, but the smile on his face was amused.

"It's okay, kid. What's up?"

Peter looked confused for a beat, face scrunched together, until he remembered he'd had a question to ask.

"Oh, yea. I just—I was wondering, you know...,"

"Spit it out, Pete."

"...do you think I'm behind?"

He raised an eyebrow at the stammering teen.

"What do you mean, behind?"

Peter tapped his heels together nervously, feeling altogether out of place in Tony Stark's home, in the place where he worked. He knew what he wanted to say, but something about being in the presence of one of the most influential men in the world had his words caught in his mouth.

The first few times he'd visited, the allure of technology so advanced it was almost unbelievable and the pieces of Avengers gear that littered the compound had been all he could focus on. The part of Peter that was still a happy-go-lucky teen who owned Thor pajamas felt like his dreams had come true.

After a week or two, though, the older part of Peter took over, the part that wasn't so bright-eyed and full of childlike self-assurance.

He didn't belong there—as a budding engineer or as a hero—next to Tony Stark. He was nothing more than a kid in a costume in way over his head.

"I mean, you went to M.I.T. when you were fifteen, right?"

The man cocked his head to the side, rolling his chair closer to Peter.

"What are you getting at?"

"I know I'm not as smart as you, obviously, but I just... I feel like I should be doing better, you know? In school and stuff. You did so many things by the time you were my age, you were in _college_ already and I... I haven't even _looked_ at colleges yet. I guess I just wanted to know...," he took a breath and looked to his dangling feet before blurting, "how'd you do it? How'd you graduate so fast?"

Tony's brows furrowed, worried, as he felt the atmosphere in the lab grew heavy. Peter looked at him desperately, almost sadly, and it made his stomach churn.

It'd be one thing if Peter had asked the question because he was purely curious.

It was another thing entirely if Peter had asked the question because he felt like that was what was expected of him. As if not meeting that expectation somehow made Peter a failure.

As much as he wanted to believe Peter's intention was the former, he wasn't that naïve. He knew that same feeling, remembered it with a twisted familiarity. He knew what it felt like to measure himself against his hero. To believe that, if only he matched up to the accomplishments of his father, he would have made it in the world.

And he couldn't blame the kid for thinking like that, either, because he was the one who said the damn words.

It was bad enough that Peter wanted to be like him. Then Tony had to open his fat mouth and tell the kid to be _better_.

"Can I give you some free advice?"

Peter nodded his head up and down excitedly.

"That would be nice," he said, looking at Tony, eyes expectant.

Tony met his gaze and held it.

"Take your time. Don't sweat the college thing, it'll come, and when it does—those schools are going to be fighting over you. When you're old like me, all the time you think you're saving by rushing through life now—it doesn't add up to much. Trust me, you'll lose much more than gain."

He knew it wasn't the answer Peter wanted, but it was the best one he could give him. He wasn't surprised when the kid's face fell and looked at Tony like the man had said the most absurd thing he'd heard all day.

"But Mr. Stark, sir," he stuttered before correcting himself, "Mr. Stark, you never stop moving—you're always making things cooler and more advanced. Compared to you, I'm just standing still. I don't want to do that anymore."

"Pete, do me a favor and throw me that bottle of web fluid."

He looked at Tony skeptically, bud did as he was told.

Tony caught it swiftly, turning the bottle over in his hands and examining it slowly.

"No normal kid sits in his high school chemistry lab and develops a compound like this. The highly paid men and women in my R&D department couldn't develop something like this, okay? Do you think that's 'sitting still'?"

He wanted the kid to agree, to nod, to just say something, because he was so far out of his wheelhouse when it came to talking to teens, but the room remained silent.

"This isn't only about college, is it?"

It was more of a statement than a question, but he was still hoped for an answer. He didn't get one.

"Peter, talk to me," Tony prodded. "Please."

The boy paused for a few seconds longer, carefully to choosing his words.

"I just want to be like you," he whispered, and Tony winced internally while forcing a half-hearted smile.

"I thought we talked about this," he said, the playful turn of his lips contrasted against the darkness in his eyes.

"I know," Peter conceded, his voice a little stronger, "but it's more than me just wanting to be a hero like Iron Man... I want to be like _you._ Like Tony Stark."

Tony sat silently, letting the weight of those words hit him like a truck speeding down a highway, and Peter took it as an invitation to continue.

"Your parents died, and you took control of a billion-dollar company like it was nothing. You were taken hostage, nearly killed, and came back as Iron Man. It's like every time the world expected you to break you just came back stronger. I want that—I want to prove to everyone that I'm worth more than anyone bargained for. I want to be able to think, that, somewhere out there, my parents are proud of me."

If Tony was out of his wheelhouse before, he was in a different dimension now. He felt caught off guard, knocked on his ass, and in desperate need of back-up that he didn't have. It was just him and the kid and a nagging knowledge that nothing could come out of his mouth that would do justice to what he desperately needed Peter Parker to know. Despite that, though, he knew he needed to try.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to believe everything you see on TV? I know they show me out there in my suit, kicking ass, but there's a reason you can't see my face, kid. I'm not as tough and aloof as I try to make people believe."

"When you go home, I stay right here. I sit in this shop and I work on your suit and my suit and I build things because if I don't, if I let myself stop, I feel like the bad guys are getting the upper hand. If I stop, then I feel like I've failed—you, myself, the other Avengers, my folks, and that thought terrifies me."

"Pepper always hated that, always tried so hard to make me to believe that I didn't need all of this," he motioned around himself, "to be enough."

"I'm the biggest hypocrite in the world for trying to get you to believe this when I never could... but Pete, you're important. With or without your powers, whether you ace a test or bomb it, you're important. To May, to your friend Ned, to that lady with the churro. If your parents were still here they'd be bragging about you to everyone they meet. I know I do. You don't have to prove anything."

They sat in the quiet for a few minutes, Peter fidgeting in his rolling stool before he managed, "You really believe that?"

Tony laughed, and his smile actually reached his eyes, "Do you think I'd invite just anyone over here? I'm not much of a people person, kid."

Peter grinned, and the tight feeling that had settled in Tony's stomach finally eased.

"Maybe it's time to take a break from the hero stuff. I think we could both use some time away. Are movie theaters still a thing that kids like, or am I completely dating myself here?"

Judging by the way the kid's face lit up, Tony guessed that he was on board.

"Does May have tonight off? We can pick her up on the way. I don't think she'd appreciate me monopolizing your time, and she doesn't need any more reasons to hate me," he joked, finally making a move to leave the room he'd spent the better part of three days in.

The kid giggled, practically bounding for the doors. "She doesn't hate you."

"I'll believe that when I hear it from her."

Tony knew this wasn't over—that it took more than one spontaneous monologue to erase years of self-doubt, but he'd deal with the relapses when they came.

For now, he was going to do whatever it took to keep that damn smile on the kid's face.


End file.
